It was warm on the roof, very warm, by the time Al-Fulani was assisted up the stairs and out onto the hot metal surface. Two bodies lay where they had fallen, and the air around them was thick with flies, as the Moroccan was led over to one of the camp chairs originally brought along for his comfort. The businessman was still dressed in his red silk pajamas, but they were badly soiled, and offered little protection from the scorching heat.
Once Al-Fulani was seated, Numo secured him to the chair with several feet of duct tape, which made a scritching sound as it came off the roll.
“That looks good,” Agent 47 said approvingly. “Now for the umbrella.”
The mention of an umbrella caused the Moroccan’s spirits to rise, but they subsequently fell when the blue-and-white-striped sunscreen was set up a full fifteen feet away, and six of the older children were invited to sit in the shade. The Dinkas were equipped with bottles of spring water, too-all taken from Al-Fulani’s private larder. The girl, Kola, who had been raped the night before, couldn’t stop sobbing.
They sat there for a while, Al-Fulani, the assassin, and the children, and the silence was maddening. The heat seeped into his every pore, but he withstood it, and refused to give in. Finally his captor stood, and walked over to the group of slaves.
“Here,” the assassin said without emotion, as he issued each child a knife. “Keep these handy.”
Al-Fulani’s face paled as he saw the knives, understood their purpose, and quickly lost his resolve. Before long, he began to blubber.
“Please!” he said piteously. “I implore you! Don’t let them cut me.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” 47 lied reassuringly. “As long as you answer my questions, I promise that you will come to no harm.
“There are two things I want to know,” the assassin added intently as he returned to his seat on an upturned bucket. “First, what is the name of the organization that is attacking The Agency?”
“I can’t tell you that,” the Moroccan insisted. “They would kill me! Surely you can understand that.”
“I do understand that,” Agent 47 responded soothingly. “The problem is that I don’t care. You,” the assassin said, as he turned toward the little girl with big brown eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Kola,” the Dinka answered shyly, as she attempted to wipe the tears away.
“Well, Kola,” the operative said. “Come over here and bring your knife. The truth is hidden somewhere inside this man—and your job is to cut it out. Don’t kill him though. Not until we have what we need. Here, I’ll help you get started.”
The little girl’s expression showed that she remembered what had been done to her the night before, knew what that meant within the context of her Dinka culture, and hate filled her eyes. She stood, and was halfway to the chair when Al-Fulani began to rock back and forth.
“No!” he screeched. “Don’t let the little bitch touch me! I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Agent 47 held up his hand and Kola stopped, but she stood there glaring at the Moroccan.
“All right,” the assassin said, “enlighten me. Which one of The Agency’s competitors are we dealing with?”
“The Puissance Treize!” Al-Fulani answered eagerly. “I swear it!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the assassin said approvingly. “That’s consistent with what we already know. So tell me something I don’t know. Who did they turn?”
“His name is Aristotle Thorakis,” the businessman said.
The operative frowned. “The Greek shipping magnate?”
“Yes!” Al-Fulani replied. “He sits on the board…and he owns a number of shipping lines. Big ones. But there were problems with his holdings. Lots of problems, until the Puissance Treize loaned him 500 million euros.”
“In return for information about The Agency’s operations,” 47 said, his voice thick with disgust. “But how can I be sure that you’re telling me the truth? How do I know you’re not setting him up as a patsy?”
“I swear it before Allah,” Al-Fulani said sanctimoniously.
Agent 47 nodded. There was no way to be absolutely sure, of course, but the accusation had the ring of truth to it. So the agent turned to face the children.
“Okay, boys and girls, he belongs to you. You can set the bastard free, if you want—or slice him into a hundred pieces. Whichever you prefer.”
At that point he motioned to Numo, and they headed for the stairs.
“Nooooo!” Al-Fulani protested. “You gave me your word!” But the two men were soon lost to sight.
The Moroccan began to scream. It lasted for a long time.
The plane was half an hour late.
It was little more than a dot at first, but gradually grew larger, and eventually turned into a war-weary C-27/G222 Spartan that, judging from its camouflage paint job and blacked-out markings, had once been the property of Italy’s air force. The twin-engined turboprop circled Quadi Doum twice as if the pilot were looking for signs of danger.
The lookout’s body had been replaced by a white towel that flapped in the breeze, and functioned as a wind sock. All three of the bodies had been removed from the maintenance building’s roof, Al-Fulani’s vehicles had been driven out onto the taxiway, and the children were instructed to wave as the transport roared over them.
Finally, satisfied that things were as they should be, the pilot turned back toward the north.
His name was Bob Preston. He was wearing a faded New York Yankees baseball cap over military-short black hair, and sported a stylish pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. The ex-air force officer’s brown skin had proven to be an asset in Africa, as was his ability to speak French, Arabic, and a trade language called Lingala. But even with those advantages, running a one-plane transport service was a financial challenge.
Which was why Preston had been forced to supplement his regular income with jobs he and the copilot Evan Franks referred to as “specials.” Meaning the sort of low-altitude, terrain-hugging flights that were required in order to deliver—or retrieve—shipments of weapons or other cargo to airstrips that barely deserved the title, often under trying circumstances, with people shooting at them.
But this trip looked like a piece of cake as Preston put the starboard wing down and turned into the wind. According to information available on the Internet, the original airstrip was nearly 10,000 feet long, which was a whole lot more than the Spartan would require, since the plane was designed to take off and land on short 1,500-foot runways.
No, the problem—if any—would stem from the condition of the strip. Many years had passed since maintenance had been performed on the metal mesh the Libyans had laid down. Which meant a lot of sand had been blown over the top of it, and that raised the very real possibility that the C-27’s nose gear would hit a drift, bringing the plane to a calamitous halt.
Still, that was why they paid him the big bucks. And it was the chance Preston would have to take if he wanted to collect the rest of the $10,000 that Al-Fulani had promised to pay. Plus, there were the orphans to consider.
Mercenary though he was, the pilot had a soft spot in his heart for children. And despite his other, more questionable dealings, Mr. Al-Fulani still took the time to remove refugee children from truly horrible situations, and place them in his orphanage in Fez. Where, based on what the Moroccan had told him, they were well cared for.
So the key was to land in the shortest distance possible, thereby reducing the odds of hitting deep sand.
The gear went down with a palpable thump, the ground came up fast, and Franks began to pray out loud-a practice Preston found objectionable back during the early days of their relationship. He had since come to not only accept it, but take a certain amount of comfort from it. They were alive, in spite of the many forces that had conspired to kill them. He figured that meant help was coming from somewhere.
In any case, the prayer worked. Or perhaps it was Preston’s skill that brought the plane in for a perfect landing in spite of the sand that billowed up around them. The engines roared in protest as the props went into reverse, the hull rattled as if it were about to come apart, and the C-27 screeched to a shuddering stop. Then, happy to have kept his livelihood in one piece, Preston guided the plane over toward the point where his passengers were waiting.
Agent 47 stood, briefcase in hand, as the transport taxied up to a point about a hundred feet away and came to a stop. The engines made a loud whining sound as they wound down, a door opened just aft of the cockpit on the port side of the fuselage, and a set of fold-down steps appeared.
The assassin took that as his cue to approach the plane. Numo was right behind him. The cargo plane had been chartered by Al-Fulani, which might present a problem. But thanks to the briefcase full of money that 47 had recovered from the businessman’s Land Rover, there was a reasonably good chance that the person in charge would be willing to switch employers.
If not, they would be forced to cooperate, or, if absolutely necessary, the assassin could make an attempt to fly the C-27 himself. Although he hadn’t logged any hours on a Spartan, and really didn’t want to push his luck.
He had tried to contact The Agency to tell them what he had learned, but something was interfering with his transmission. Gazeau explained that it was a problem most travelers experienced in this part of the desert, but regardless of the reason, it lent new urgency to their trip back to civilization.
So the operative had a smile on his face as he approached the stairs and boarded the plane.
“Hello!” he said engagingly, as he arrived on the flight deck. “My name’s Taylor—and this is Numo. There’s been a change of plans. I hope that’s okay.”
Preston frowned. There was something different about the man who was standing in front of him. Something dangerous. And whenever he heard the words “change of plans” come out of a client’s mouth, trouble usually followed. Still, it’s often better to go with the flow, so the pilot would wait and see.
“Glad to meet you,” the pilot responded warily. “My name is Preston. Bob Preston. And the man who’s sitting in the cockpit, when he should be outside inspecting the landing gear, is my copilot, Evan Franks.”
“Nice to meet you,” Franks said, as he pushed by. He had reddish hair, lots of freckles, and a farm-boy grin. “Don’t worry-his bark is worse than his bite.”
Agent 47 smiled as the copilot exited the ship.
“What sort of changes did you have in mind?” Preston inquired suspiciously. “And where is Mr. Fulani?”
“He was…delayed,” 47 responded noncommittally, as he eyed the Browning 9 mm that dangled under the pilot’s left arm, “and won’t be able to join us. But I need transportation to Sicily, which, if I’m not mistaken, is well within the range of your plane.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t part of the deal,” Preston objected sourly. “We were hired to fly to Fez. Six up front-with six on delivery.” That was two-thousand more than Al-Fulani had agreed to, but Preston saw no harm in amping the amount, just in case the man named Taylor was good for it.
“So we owe you six,” the assassin said agreeably, as he turned to place the briefcase on a fold-down table. The latches made serial clicking sounds as they were released. “Here’s six large,” he said, as he turned to offer the pilot a sheaf of currency. “And if you’ll fly me to Sicily, I’ll pay you six more on top of it. Agreed?”
Preston accepted the money, thumbed the stack to make sure there weren’t any blanks in the middle, and tucked the wad away.
“What about the children?” the pilot wanted to know. “Surely you don’t plan to leave them here?”
In all truth, the question of what would become of the children hadn’t even crossed 47’s mind. But seeing the look of concern on Preston’s face, the operative was quick to respond.
“No, of course not,” the assassin replied glibly. “That’s the whole point of going to Sicily. There’s an orphanage that’s ready to take them.”
Preston smiled. He had very white teeth.
“All right then!” the American said enthusiastically. “What are we waiting for? Let’s load the kids and get the hell out of here! Chances are my lazy copilot forgot to file a flight plan. So it would be best if we weren’t caught on the ground.”
With his transportation in place, Agent 47 left Gazeau and Numo to herd the children onto the plane while he went to check on Marla. Having been knocked unconscious during the battle with Al-Fulani’s security team, the Puissance Treize agent had been duct-taped into a sleeping bag, tied hand and foot.
But when the agent went to visit her, Marla was gone.
Judging from the way the restraints had been cut, it appeared that Marla was carrying a blade of some sort-one that had been small enough and so well hidden that they had missed it in their initial, cursory search. Once she came to, it would have been relatively easy for the woman to feign unconsciousness, wait for the rest of them to leave, and cut herself free.
Now, armed with any of the weapons that had been left lying about, Marla was hiding in the ruins. The assassin could go out and hunt her down, of course. But to what end? He had what he’d been sent to get—and there wasn’t any price on her head. So it made sense to let her go.
That didn’t mean Marla would be as understanding, however. So rather than risk a long-range rifle shot, Agent 47 loaded his luggage into Al-Fulani’s Land Rover and drove it out to the plane. Even though he parked the four-wheeler in a spot that would shield the bottom of the fold-down stairs, he would be exposed as he stepped onto the flight deck, but only briefly.
Even though 47 knew Gazeau and Numo would loot Al-Fulani’s vehicles prior to submitting a final bill to The Agency, he gave each man five thousand dollars anyway. Both as a bonus, and because he might have need of them in the future.
“Take care of yourself,” Gazeau said, as the two shook hands.
“Watch your back,” 47 responded. “Especially on the way out. Marla’s on the loose. And she’s armed.”
“Thanks for the warning,” the Libyan said, as he hooked a pair of aviator-style sunglasses over his ears. “Maybe I can buy her off with the Land Rover. Unless you object, that is.”
“No,” 47 replied, “That’s entirely up to you.”
Then, with a wave to Numo, the assassin mounted the stairs.
No rifle shots were heard, but Gazeau saw a glint of reflected light coming from the direction of the water tower, as if someone were eyeing the airstrip through a pair of binoculars. With that possibility in mind, he went around to open the driver’s-side door, removed the keys from the Land Rover’s ignition, and held them up where they were plain to see.
Then, having given the woman plenty of time to look, he slid the key ring down onto the vehicle’s antenna.
The C-27 had taxied away by then, leaving a miniature dust storm in its wake, as it made the turn onto the runway. The General Electric T64-P4D engines roared as its pilot advanced both throttles, the transport jerked forward, and quickly gained speed.
The plane took to the air a few seconds later.
The airstrip dated back to the days of World War II, when German planes had used it as a place to refuel before taking off for North Africa. And later, when things began to go poorly for Rommel, a squadron of fighters had been stationed there so they could attack allied shipping in the Mediterranean.
But those days were long over, and the field was primarily dedicated to civilian aviation, plus the occasional emergency landing by commercial jets.
As the sun was beginning to set, a lonely figure stood in front of the tiny terminal building and stared toward the south. Though not Agent 47’s friend in the conventional sense of the word, Father Vittorio was his spiritual adviser, to the extent that the assassin needed one. The operative believed he was headed for hell, and given all 47 had done, that was certainly possible.
But God never gives up, nor can I, the priest told himself. Because there is a kernel of goodness buried deep within 47’s soul, even if he isn’t aware of it.
And there was evidence to support the priest’s hypothesis. The assassin had once taken shelter at Vittorio’s church, where he worked as the gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind him. But men with 47’s skills were hard to come by, and it wasn’t long before the past caught up with the assassin, forcing him to take up arms once again. Those had been bloody days, in a land already soaked with blood, and it was something of a miracle that both Vittorio and his former gardener were still alive.
A cold breeze came up, as if somehow summoned by the priest’s dark thoughts, and tugged at his cloak as the plane appeared in the south. Its running lights were on, and it was gradually losing altitude.
The phone call had come like a bolt out of the blue. Vittorio knew who it was the moment he heard 47’s voice. The agent was on a plane loaded with orphans, headed for Sicily, and in need of someone to care for the youngsters. Why was a hired killer flying north with a planeload of children? There was no way to know.
And it really didn’t matter. The orphans were in need of help, and Father Vittorio would do his best to provide it. No simple matter, given all of the legalities involved, but the local customs agent was a member of Vittorio’s parish. The Holy See could be counted on to help, and the Lord would take care of the rest.
There was a brief screech of tires as the airplane put down, the engines roared, and it wasn’t long before the twin-engined transport turned off the runway and onto the taxiway in front of the terminal. It stopped a few minutes later, and the big props continued to turn for a few revolutions before finally coming to a halt.
A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed the tarmac.
Vittorio noticed that 47’s skin was darker than usual, as if he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been in Africa.
“It’s good to see you, my son,” the priest said, as the two men embraced.
“And you, Father,” Agent 47 replied. “Thank you for agreeing to help.”
“Such is the Lord’s work,” Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be the pilot, led them toward the terminal. “What can you tell me about the little ones?” the cleric inquired. “What happened to their families?”
“Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse in Fez when something happened to the man who owned them,” 47 replied.
Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the “something” was.
“But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment,” 47 added, as he presented Al-Fulani’s briefcase to the clergyman.
The priest released the latches, took a peek inside, and closed the lid.
“That looks like a lot of money, my son.”
“It is,” 47 agreed. “And it’s tax free.”
The conversation was interrupted as the pilot arrived with the children in tow. The man was about to introduce himself when the orphans rushed Father Vittorio and quickly surrounded him.
“My name’s Preston,” the pilot said, as he extended his hand. “The children went to a mission school, before the priest was murdered and all of the villagers were forced to flee. So they know what a clerical collar means.”
The copilot joined the group at that point. He had a briefcase tucked under one arm and was toting the two suitcases. “I don’t know what you have in these things,” he complained to 47, “but they’re damned heavy!”
“That makes them harder to steal,” 47 said lightly as he accepted the briefcase. The situation appeared to make the agent uncomfortable, and he seemed eager not to linger.
Before the operative could make his escape, one girl detached herself from the rest of the children and came to stand directly in front of him. Her big brown eyes were solemn, and her voice was clear as she spoke.
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. All of us will remember your name.”
That was probably the highest honor the Dinka children knew how to bestow. But as Father Vittorio looked at 47, he saw genuine consternation on the assassin’s face. He suspected that it had never been the man’s intention to help the children, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.
The agent just nodded awkwardly, and mumbled, “You’re welcome,” as he slung the briefcase over a shoulder and took a grip on both of the suitcases.
There was a long moment of silence as three men and a little girl watched 47 walk away. Finally, having given a shake of his head, Father Vittorio spoke.
“The ways of God are mysterious, my friends…very mysterious indeed.”
It was early the next morning by the time Agent 47 arrived in Rome, took the train in from the airport, and checked into a nice but low-key hotel not far from the Spanish Steps. Then it was time to take a shower, brush his teeth, and grab some sleep.
Before he had left for Rome, he had tried again to contact Diana, and an unfamiliar voice had responded, claiming to be her replacement. That had been so out of the ordinary that 47 had decided not to trust his important information to a stranger, and had cut the connection immediately.
It was now light outside, but the heavy drapes served to keep most of the dawn sunshine out, and some of the traffic noise, as well. The carpet was equipped with a good pad, which meant the assassin was more comfortable than usual, and had little difficulty falling asleep.
Strangely-from 47’s perspective at least-it was raining when he awoke. Dark clouds obscured the sun, and raindrops pattered against his window as he carried out his morning routines. Except that it was midafternoon by then, which meant it was going to be very difficult to find a decent breakfast, especially in a country where the first meal of the day normally consisted of coffee and a roll. A meal so nonexistent that they might as well not have bothered, insofar as 47 was concerned.
The solution was to eat at a hotel that not only catered to Americans, but boasted its own restaurant, because such an establishment was likely to offer eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Finding one involved a three-block walk without benefit of an umbrella, so 47 was soaking wet by the time he was shown into an over-decorated dining room and escorted to a table. The good news was that the restaurant did, indeed, serve American-style breakfasts.
The bad news was that they were serving lunch. Yet as always, money worked wonders, and having slipped a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter, the assassin was soon dining on a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and sausage, with hot coffee to wash it down.
With a full stomach, and a newly purchased umbrella to protect his head, the assassin made his way back to his hotel. His room had been cleaned, and his luggage was secure, so it was time to get back to work.
The first order of business was to call in again and try to speak with Diana, who, he hoped, would be back on duty. Since she hadn’t heard from the agent in days, she could be counted on to chew him out, especially since he had hung up on her “replacement.”
But having activated the satellite phone and entered the appropriate code, Agent 47 again found himself talking to a stranger. Not unheard of, but rare, since Diana was something of a workaholic, so he didn’t cut the connection this time.
Equally unusual, however, was the fact that the man who answered the phone immediately routed the call to Mr. Nu, who 47 had last seen in Yakima. There was a thirty-second wait, but once the executive came on, he was clearly anxious to take the call.
“Agent 47? Is that you? We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I was kind of busy,” the assassin replied honestly. “Where’s Diana?”
The executive knew how attached field agents could become to their controllers and was ready for the question.
“We need to talk, 47. Face-to-face. Where are you?”
“In Rome,” the assassin answered cautiously.
“Okay, Rome it is,” the executive replied. “I can be there in time for a late dinner. We’ll eat, I’ll bring you up to date on Diana, and you can tell me about Africa. How did it go, by the way? Were you able to catch up with Al-Fulani?”
The question hung between them as the assassin considered his options. He could—and probably should—tell Mr. Nu what he had learned, but something felt wrong. Something having to do with Diana.
So rather than answer the question, the agent chose to end the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s someone at the door. Let’s catch up tonight. Where should we meet?”
Nu sensed the agent’s hesitancy, but thought it best to let the matter slide, confident that he would learn whatever there was to know later in the day. So instead, he gave the name of his favorite restaurant.
“I’ll see you at nine,” he said, and he waited for 47 to be the one who broke the circuit.
He opened another channel, and a quick conversation with a technician in the Danjou’s control room was sufficient to confirm that, based on the tracker built into 47’s phone, the agent really was in Rome. It wasn’t that the executive didn’t trust the assassin. But still…
Diana had been above suspicion until recently and now nothing seemed certain. Suspicion was like a communicable disease, and once contracted, it was almost impossible to beat.
“Call the airport,” Nu said. “Tell our pilot to file a flight plan for Rome. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Now that he thought about it, maybe he didn’t trust the assassin. In fact, maybe he didn’t trust anyone.
It was still raining, and Agent 47 had been watching the restaurant for more than an hour when a cab pulled up and Mr. Nu got out. The assassin had no reason to expect a trap, but it always paid to be careful, so he waited for a full five minutes to see if anyone else showed up. He scanned the nearby buildings, as well, but saw nothing that appeared to be suspicious. Finally, satisfied that the restaurant was reasonably safe, he stepped out into a cold drizzle.
Five minutes later he was seated across a linen-covered table from his superior. A small oil-fed lamp had been placed at the center of the surface and it lit the executive’s face from below.
“All of the food here is excellent,” Nu said, as he gestured toward a waiting menu, “but I’m especially fond of the chicken risotto. The chef uses the Carnaroli grain, which holds its shape better than the Arborio, yet absorbs the stock extremely well. Or, you might like the Pasta Rustico, which generally appeals to those with hearty appetites.”
In the end 47 ordered the pasta dish, which turned out to be delicious and went perfectly with the house red. Once they had eaten the main course, Nu got down to business.
“You inquired about Diana,” the executive said somberly, “and I put you off. That’s because it looks as though she’s the person we’ve been looking for.”
Agent 47 opened his mouth to protest, but Nu raised a hand.
“The two of you have a close working relationship. I know that. But hear me out.”
So 47 listened as the executive laid out the evidence against Diana, and their dessert arrived.
“So, that’s it,” Mr. Nu concluded gloomily. “It would appear that Diana sold us out—except that she claims the payments are part of an elaborate trick. An effort to direct attention away from the true culprit. Personally, I hope she’s correct—but it doesn’t look likely. Not unless you have information to the contrary.”
Agent 47 met the other man’s eyes. “Yes, I believe I do, although I need more proof. According to Al-Fulani the man we’re looking for is Aristotle Thorakis. Al-Fulani claimed that Thorakis is—or was—in serious financial trouble. Such deep trouble that it was necessary to accept a loan from the Puissance Treize to remain in business. And they’ve been draining him dry ever since.”
Nu frowned. “Are you sure? We knew he was having problems, but when our accountants went over his finances, he came up clean. All the money he borrowed seemed to come from legitimate sources.”
“Tell the bean counters to take another look,” Agent 47 suggested dryly. “It’s my guess that those ‘legitimate sources’ are actually fronts. Or firms that are beholden to the Puissance Treize in some way.”
“What you say makes sense,” Nu acknowledged. “But even you admit that we lack proof. What if the bean counters don’t find anything?”
“Then hopefully I will,” 47 responded. “I plan to track Thorakis down and see what I can learn. But don’t tell the board. If Thorakis gets wind of what we’re doing, he’ll take additional steps to cover his tracks or run.”
“Understood,” the executive said. “But until such time as we can prove that Thorakis is guilty, Diane will remain under lock and key. And there’s a lot of pressure to punish her now.”
“From whom?” 47 wanted to know. “From Thorakis?”
“Yes,” Nu confirmed. “But from others as well. They want blood.”
“I need time,” 47 responded.
“How much?”
“Two weeks.”
“Okay,” the executive said reluctantly. “That’s a lot, but I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy, though.”
“No,” Agent 47 agreed soberly. “It won’t be easy.”
When Agent 47 awoke the next morning he could feel the clock ticking.
Not for himself, but for Diana, which was strange, because he barely knew her. And how could it be otherwise? Given the fact that most of their relationship consisted of five-minute phone conversations.
But with the exception of extremely rare face-to-face meetings like the one with Nu, Diana was his only genuine link with The Agency. And his only hope for help when a mission went awry. So that made the controller important to 47’s survival, which, all things considered, made her very important indeed.
Such were the assassin’s thoughts as he downed a quick breakfast at the American hotel, and went back to his room to conduct some online research. The sort of thing The Agency normally took care of for him, but he would need to handle himself, lest he reveal his interest in Aristotle Thorakis.
The first and most pressing problem was where to find the shipping magnate. The Greek was very well known, so having entered the name “Aristotle Thorakis” into a popular search engine, the agent came up with 1,918,000 hits.
Most of them had to do with the shipping tycoon’s business dealings. And it was then-while sampling some of the stories about the way Aristotle had improved the family-owned company-that 47 came across an article regarding one of the Greek’s competitors. A Mexican businessman named José Alvarez, who had just been starting to take business away from a Thorakis-owned cruise line when he had the misfortune to drown in his own swimming pool. It was a terrible accident. Or that’s what the stories claimed.
The assassin already knew about the incident, because he’d been there that night. Instead of using scuba gear, which would produce bubbles, 47 had been equipped with a military-style rebreather, and was already submerged at the deep end of the pool when Alvarez dove in. Pulling the entrepreneur under had been relatively easy. Keeping him down had been a little more difficult.
By continually refining his search terms, 47 was able to find dozens of newspaper and magazine articles about Thorakis, his family, and the lifestyle they enjoyed. And after skimming a number of those stories, the assassin came to the conclusion that when not attending a business meeting in London, New York, Hong Kong, or some other center of international finance, the shipping magnate spent most of his time on the family estate near Kalomata, Greece, at his high-rise condo in Athens, aboard the sleek superyacht Perseus, or in a relatively modest mansion located in Sintra, Portugal.
Which, the operative soon learned from the tabloids, was rumored to be the house where the businessman kept his Ethiopian mistress. A relationship his wife was said to be aware of, but chose to ignore.
Having determined the places where Thorakis was most likely to be found, the assassin’s next step was to zero in on the shipping magnate’s current location. It had begun to seem hopeless, until the agent discovered that there were weekly papers that made it their business to keep track of Hollywood starlets, spoiled aristocrats, and yes, wealthy businessmen like Thorakis. Especially when they were being naughty, which according to the very latest edition of La Dolce Vita, the Greek definitely was.
According to the breathless text that accompanied a much-magnified shot of the shipping magnate nibbling on a woman’s bare foot, Thorakis was currently lying low in Sintra with his mistress. And judging from the six suitcases that had been unloaded from his limo, the businessman was planning to stay for a while.
A quick phone call to a small paper in Sintra was sufficient to confirm the Greek’s presence.
But rather than travel to Sintra, and improvise some sort of cover subsequent to his arrival, 47 wanted to do it the right way. Which was to construct an alternate identity before he boarded a plane. It was the sort of thing Diana normally took care of for him, yet now, having been forced to do his own research, the operative already knew the unsavory sort of person he wanted to impersonate.
As a member of the freewheeling, hypercompetitive, and often unethical band of photographers frequently referred to as the paparazzi, he could hang around the Thorakis mansion at all hours of the day and night, carry a variety of cameras, and openly follow the Greek wherever he went. All without eliciting any suspicion.
Of course first, before assuming his new identity, Agent 47 knew it would be necessary to change his appearance. Not just a little bit, but a lot, because Thorakis knew very well what he looked like, and if he really was a turncoat, the Puissance Treize would want to protect him.
So the assassin made some phone calls, took down an address, and set the alarms on his luggage.
Agent 47 had learned a lot about makeup and theatrical appliances over the years. So much so that when he entered the Portello Dell Fase he was able to successfully pass himself off as a British actor who had unexpectedly been called upon to play Shakespeare’s Falstaff. There was much bustling about as the proprietress, a onetime stage actress herself, went in search of the perfect strap-on foam belly. An appliance that, when combined with a half-halo of black hair and some cheek inserts, would transform her customer into the shameless, lying tub of lard that was Falstaff.
The woman was equipped with costumes as well, and though of the opinion that 47 was too tall to play Falstaff, she said that she was willing to make the necessary alterations anyway.
Agent 47 demurred, however, insisting that the theater company would provide his costume, so he was able to exit gracefully after spending what seemed like an exorbitant amount of money in the shop.
With those purchases made it was time to visit a men’s clothing store, where the assassin insisted on looking after himself, and eventually left with a wardrobe that the cashier knew was too large for him.
Satisfied with his new look, and confident that it would fool just about anyone, 47 went back to the hotel, where he returned to his room. And it was there that Tazio Scaparelli was born. The paparazzo was a homely man, with a bald pate surrounded by unruly black hair, fat cheeks, a mole on his upper lip, and a substantial gut that not only hung out over his belt, but threatened to split his cheap sports shirt wide open. A pair of baggy pants and some thick-soled shoes completed the outfit.
He wasn’t going to take the Silverballers, the Walther, or the shotgun into Portugal. Nor did he want to take his regular clothes, since Scaparelli couldn’t wear them. So the assassin only took what he needed, packed all of it into his briefcase, and left the hotel via an emergency exit.
Ten minutes later the agent stepped up to a pay phone, dialed a long series of digits, and waited for the inevitable answer. When it came he cut the controller off. “This is 47. Please send someone to get my luggage. Oh, and one other thing, tell whoever you send to leave the locks alone. Otherwise something could go boom!”
The controller started to respond-but the conversation was over.